


so until then i wish you well

by iinfiniteskies



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Growing Up, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, the fic equivalent of ribs by lorde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iinfiniteskies/pseuds/iinfiniteskies
Summary: Sokka dreams his head is in his mother’s lap. She’s stroking his head, carding her fingers through his hair. “You were all so young, Sokka,” she murmurs, “too young to be soldiers.” The ice and snow are bright and cold but he doesn’t feel it at all. “Too young for the weight that still rests on your shoulders.”The Fire Lord is twenty-one. He doesn’t know if he can take it anymore.
Relationships: Past Sokka/Suki, Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), background Aang/Katara
Comments: 68
Kudos: 402





	so until then i wish you well

**Author's Note:**

> hello! fic title is from the song "Brielle" by Sky Sailing.

Zuko’s beach house is large and feels empty even with six people living in it; rooms sit empty and plates collect dust in the cabinets. In the mornings, the crash of waves against the shore fills every space, echoing up stairwells and around the halls.

Summer drifts past endlessly. Sokka can see the ocean from his bedroom window and spends languid afternoons with his head on the windowsill, eyes closed against the muggy breezes that waft slowly against his forehead. He is twenty, now, and the world doesn’t need saving anymore.

From his vantage point, Sokka stares down at the beach below, at the tiny figures running in the sand or laying stretched out on towels. He watches Katara and Aang in the waves, sending streams of water back and forth and laughing every time one of them falls back into the water. He watches them, and sometimes Suki comes in and lets her fingertips rest against his temples, quietly; _I’m here_ , she seems to say as her palms press against the shaved sides of his head.

They’re all at the beach house at the invitation of Zuko, who had taken the crown at the age of sixteen and never let it slip, until exactly four days ago when he stood up during a meeting and walked out through the great carved doors into the courtyard, sitting down on one of the low steps leading up to the verandah and refusing to return.

So they’re at the beach, and everyone is acting like there’s nothing wrong. Zuko wears his long hair loose and untied, having discarded his golden hairpins during his dramatic exit. Sometimes, when Sokka sits at the window, he pictures what the moment must have looked like: Zuko, resplendent in the rich golds and reds of his robes, his hair rippling down across his shoulders, tossing the gold clips aside and striding out of the room. If he wants a laugh, he pictures the expressions of all the haughty generals and advisers at the table when they witnessed the display.

Suki had only smiled when Sokka told her he had to go see Zuko. When he told her Zuko had mentioned her by name, extending the invitation, she’d crossed the room and cupped his face in her hands, pressed a small kiss to the top of his cheekbone, and allowed him to grasp the bend of her elbows lightly and lean in. They love each other with practiced ease, and every movement is a familiar dance.

They had all met at the tiny port that is connected to the village where Zuko has his beach house. On a small island off the coast of the Fire Nation, the residents get by mostly on trade and tourism, offering visitors trips up to peek into the gaping maw of the volcano that burps and smokes at the centre of the island.

Suki and Katara chatted idly, squinting against the sun. Sokka had spent the last two summers at Kyoshi Island, so the girls hadn’t seen each other in several months—Katara’s laughter pealed brightly across the dock and Suki murmured something lightly in response.

“He’s not doing well, you know,” Toph had said quietly at Sokka’s shoulder, her arms crossed against the green linen of her dress. “He hasn’t been doing well for a while, now.” And a hard rock of guilt had settled somewhere in the pit of Sokka’s stomach because he had been with Suki and working for his father, and at no point had Zuko ever truly crossed his mind.

Aang’s face was pinched with worry. “He’s young to be shouldering this much responsibility.” And Sokka couldn’t help snorting at those words, because they were rich coming from the seventeen-year-old Avatar, the saviour of the world since the ripe old age of twelve. “No, my—my responsibility is different,” Aang had continued, tugging absentmindedly at his earlobe. “Politics are worlds more life-sucking than running around knocking out Fire Nation soldiers. That was easy in comparison.” And his face twisted into a tiny smile. 

Sokka had opened his mouth to respond but Zuko was approaching them, so his mouth snapped shut. The Fire Lord stood in front of the group with the same awkwardness as when he’d approached them at the Air Temple just a few years before. It was only then that Sokka appreciated just how much their group had splintered in the last year, and he fought the urge to wrap everyone there up in a big hug and tell them to _stay, stay; I don’t want things to change anymore_.

But things _had_ changed, and Zuko’s mouth was pressed thin as he led them to the house and showed them each their rooms. It was something a servant easily could have done but Zuko seemed to be proving a point as he pointed out each space in the house, his words terse and clipped. Sokka had noted that he hadn’t seen a single servant at all, even as they toured through the kitchens and gardens.

Zuko didn’t mention how long he wanted them all to stay and no one asked. Sokka had quietly freed up his entire summer after receiving the invitation, and he was sure the others had done the same.

That was four days ago. They only ever see Zuko at mealtimes, where he sits quietly at the table and picks at his food, black hair falling in rippling sheets down his back and loose robes resting against his sharp collarbones. Zuko is all angles, all hard and pointy edges.

Sokka and Suki spend little time together; he prefers to hide up in their room and watch the ocean while she works with Toph and sometimes Katara, developing new bending styles that incorporate the movements of the Kyoshi warriors. Sometimes Aang joins them, but Zuko never does. Sokka works very hard not to feel left out—he knows he could join them if he really wanted to, and he further knows that they all rarely had so much free time to work together. Suki comes to bed each night flush with excitement from everything they worked on that day and he lets her chatter against his chest, dozing off to the soothing cadence of her words.

Sokka is drawn from his reverie by the sound of his bedroom door sliding open, thin paper rasping against the wood. He turns, rubbing at the imprint of the windowsill on his cheek, and sees Zuko standing there, arms crossed against his chest.

“Zuko?”

But the man just shakes his head mutely and crosses the room to Sokka and Suki’s bed, where he lays down and melts into his robes, hands curled under the wide sleeves. Sokka stares at him for a moment but lets him be, returning to his position at the windowsill. Half an hour later, Zuko leaves.

This continues for several days. After lunch, when Suki leaves with Toph or Katara or Aang—because everyone but Sokka and Zuko is eager to explore the island—Zuko comes into Sokka’s room and sleeps for first an hour, then the next day two; then a week later they spend the entire afternoon together, drifting in and out of sleep from opposite sides of the room as the ocean crashes outside. They never speak, and Zuko is always able to perfectly time his exit with Suki’s arrival back home.

One night Aang suggests a bonfire on the beach, so they all spend the afternoon gathering up firewood and blankets and setting them up on the same patch of sand Sokka watches from his bedroom window. Then they spend the evening and most of the night out there, toasting anything that could be shoved onto a stick and trading stories from the past few years they’d all been apart. 

Katara and Aang talk about the travelling they’d done and the people they’d met, and Sokka doesn’t miss the way their eyes sparkle with inside jokes they don’t even try to explain as they trip over themselves explaining story after story. Their energy for their work is palpable and so is their utter adoration for each other. 

Toph had been with Zuko for a majority of the past few years, and she jokes lightly about the stuffed heads they had to deal with daily trying to get anything meaningful done. She jokes, but Sokka sees Zuko’s shoulders stiffen at her words. 

“Blind Bandit them into submission,” Sokka offers, only half-kidding, “Since when has diplomacy ever gotten anything done around here?”

Toph pretends to consider it. “That would be pretty satisfying,” she allows with a wry grin. “But I think we’re just going to have to stick to ass-kissing for now.” 

Suki speaks a little about her work with the Kyoshi warriors, and Sokka can’t help but compare their rapport to that of Aang and Katara’s. Suki is familiar. She’s safe. She picks up right where Sokka drops the thread of the story and carries it to the punchline, knowing exactly where he was going with it. They’re in perfect harmony with each other; their lives together have a practiced rhythm that is comforting in its utter mundanity.

Sokka thinks about the way Zuko’s hair falls against his pillow while he sleeps.

The next morning Sokka skips breakfast and plunges into the ocean, gasping at the shock of the cold water against his skin that is still warm from sleep. He stays out in the water for hours, long enough that he feels his fingertips wrinkle and lips develop a purple tinge. He makes the trek back up the steep wooden steps to a quiet house and sighs, his chest lighter than it has been for months. 

“You know, this isn’t how I thought I would be spending my twenties,” Sokka says one day to Zuko’s sleeping form. “I thought I’d be a warrior, or a hunter, or even—I dunno—married, or something.” He pauses. “I just do paperwork all the time.” No one told him how much being second in command to the leader of the Southern Water Tribe is just diplomacy, and letters, and mind-numbing meetings settling even more mind-numbing disputes.

“Sometimes I miss the months before the comet,” Sokka confesses against the rush of the waves. “It was difficult, and sleeping on dirt sucked, and while it was happening I would have given anything to just be able to go home. But now …” he trails off, leaning the back of his head on the splintering wood of the windowsill. “I think things were easier back then.”

He looks at Zuko, who is breathing slowly and evenly, strands of hair fluttering against his lips with each exhale. “I know you’re awake,” Sokka finally says, and is rewarded with Zuko’s eyes blinking open, holding his gaze.

“Why aren’t you married?” is all Zuko replies with, shifting on the blankets so he lies on his side and his robes pool around him.

Sokka blinks. “One of the first full sentences you’ve spoken since we got here, and it’s to ask why I’m not married?” He laughs incredulously and Zuko snorts in response, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I’m never going to understand you.”

Sokka starts going on walks. The beach in front of the house runs the length of the island, and Sokka times how long it takes him to walk the full circumference—if he starts after breakfast, he can be back just before dinner, with his skin sun-kissed and feet calloused from the rough sand and stones. Sometimes Zuko joins him and they walk in silence, the smallest of distances between them as they dodge sandcastles and other beach-goers.

Suki falls asleep next to Sokka and he dreams he’s standing in the ocean, the waves lightly hitting his calves. The moon is large and otherworldly, and a cold wind rushes around him. Sokka stares at the thick streams of stars that swirl over his head and reaches his hand up, letting their glow caress the tips of his fingers and leave him feeling all hollowed-out when he wakes up in the morning.

“What do you get up to during the day?” Katara asks him one morning and Sokka startles from his reverie, lost in the memory of the briny water against his skin. 

“I go walking,” he says vaguely in response, and she rolls her eyes, opening her mouth to reply sharply.

“If you ever want to do something else, Katara and I are making decent progress with our bending modifications. We could use some outside opinions,” Suki interjects from her seat next to him, her hand resting lightly on his upper arm, right above his tattoos. Her eyes are soft as Sokka searches her face for some kind of annoyance, any sign of bitterness at the way he’s drawn himself away from her. She just looks distantly sad. He leaves the table soon after.

There’s a tiny courtyard on the opposite side of the house from the ocean. Aang likes to sit there and meditate in the early mornings, and sometimes Sokka will join him. He’ll sit on one of the low stone benches and stare at the trickling fountain in the centre of the mossy pavilion while Aang sits in front of him, cross-legged on a patch of carpet. Zuko provided them all with linen shirts and trousers that were well suited to the humid weather, and Aang’s seem to float around him as he breathes.

Sokka thinks about his mother, and how she used to run her fingers through his hair whenever he complained about not being able to sleep. He doesn’t think about her death. He’s not sure if he even can.

“Katara and I have to leave soon,” Aang says in front of Sokka, breaking the silence that stretches thinly between them. “She wants to go talk to the Earthbenders about the new bending styles she’s been developing with Suki.”

“Oh,” Sokka says. _Oh_. “Is Suki going, too?” 

The fountain trickles and drips. Distantly, Sokka hears a _boom_ as a particularly large wave crashes against the shore. Aang takes a few measured breaths, then turns to face Sokka. Sokka is struck by how much the airbender has grown in the past few years—his grey eyes are piercing and dark, and his cheekbones hollow. The wiry muscles of his arms flex as he tucks his knees under his chin.

“You should talk to her about that.” Aang has always had a way of seeing right into Sokka’s soul.

Sokka doesn’t talk to Suki right away. He lays on the sun-beaten wood of the floor of his bedroom and listens to Zuko softly breathe in the bed next to him. Zuko still rarely speaks, but he no longer looks as hunted when someone calls his name or speaks loudly next to him. His hands, long and thin and bony, have stopped twisting together nervously under the table during dinner. It’s been two weeks now.

_Why aren’t you married?_

_We’re only twenty_ , Sokka thinks. _We’re young. Five years_ , chides a small voice in the back of his head. _Five years, and summers at Kyoshi island, and spending early morning breakfasts knocking feet under the table_. Suki would say yes if he were to ask. It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his mind.

One morning, Sokka tries to swim as far out in the ocean as he can. _How do you know when you’ve fallen out of love?_ he wonders as he gasps against the salty spray. The beach house looks tiny and insignificant in the distance as he floats on his back, letting the rolling waves slowly inch him back to shore. His arms burn as he swims the last few metres until his feet can scrabble for purchase on the wet sand beneath the waves.

Suki tells him she’s leaving with Katara and Aang exactly six days after his conversation with Aang in the courtyard. It’s early morning, and her head is pressed into Sokka’s chest as he traces familiar circles against her bare back. It’s easy, this morning ritual. They’ve woken up like this every day since they were seventeen, when Hakoda finally gave up trying to keep them apart.

“Oh, Sokka,” she sighs as she twists to face him, her nose inches from his. “Things are never going to change, are they?” She presses a lingering kiss to his lips before sliding out of bed, and Sokka’s chest feels cold in her absence. Distantly, Sokka realizes that everything familiar to him is slowly slipping away.

“Are you happy, Suki?” Sokka can’t stop himself from asking, and Suki pauses as she pulls on a tunic. She smiles ruefully and ties the back herself. 

“Not really,” she replies, but there’s no bite to her words. She leaves, and Sokka feels something in his chest shift and crumble. 

Sokka dreams he’s walking in the jungle, with thick, humid air pressing against his mouth. Sweat drips down his forehead, and there’s mud caked to the sides of his legs. He breathes deeply and tips his head back to look up through the foliage, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the sky.

Toph leaves a few days after them, citing business back at the palace. “Someone has to keep this country running,” she chides, and she’s only seventeen. Zuko isn’t there. Sokka wraps her up in a big hug and she pushes him off of her, shaking her head. “Keep an eye on Sparky for me?” And Sokka realizes they’re going to be alone.

“Toph,” he pulls her away from the door. “What happened?”

She frowns. “We were all really young,” she finally replies and Sokka barely suppresses a frustrated groan. _Why does everyone insist on speaking in riddles around here?_ But he doesn’t say anything else, and Toph leaves. He watches her pick her way halfway down the steps before using her earthbending to make a platform and slide down to the port across the sand.

The world doesn’t need saving anymore, but that doesn’t stop Sokka from waking up in a cold sweat, gasping, reaching out across the bed’s empty expanse for the person he knows is no longer there. He lays there in the dark and thinks about the first few nights after Zuko was crowned, when they all stayed in the palace for a lack of anywhere else to go. They each had their own massive rooms with massive beds and sumptuous silks and robes, but every night Sokka would wake up to Suki tucked under his chin and Aang wrapped around his arm with Katara next to him, and Toph stretched across his stomach. Zuko was never there when he woke up, but Toph would swear up and down he’d been there earlier in the night. 

Sometimes with Suki, there were nights where neither of them could sleep, when their heads were filled with visions of roaring flames and crashing waves and the smell of coal burning; they would sit up together, then, and drink tea among their sheets in the dark. Sokka can admit, now, that he’d clung so long to Suki simply because of how safe she’d made him feel as they held each other through nightmare after nightmare.

Sokka stops sleeping, and when he finally does he dreams of fire.

After Suki leaves, Zuko stops coming to Sokka’s bedroom, leaving Sokka to entertain himself alone. He wanders the house, enjoying the feeling of his bare feet sliding on the wood worn smooth from years of use, and wonders how many people used to fill the silence that now gapes throughout the halls.

His father sends him letters and he doesn’t answer them. They pile up unopened on the dresser. 

Zuko starts making tea. Sokka comes downstairs every morning to a full tea service set up on one corner of the table and the smell of jasmine wafting into every corner. They sit in silence, but Sokka sometimes catches Zuko watching him from the corner of his eye. As he drinks his tea, he can almost feel Zuko’s gaze tracing its way down his arm and shoulder, taking in every mark and scar and all the lines of his tattoos, but by the time he looks up Zuko’s eyes are back gazing into the middle distance.

And it’s in those small, quick moments that Sokka can admit to himself that he’s always been a little in love with Zuko, and maybe Zuko’s always been a little in love with him, too.

“Suki left,” Zuko says finally one of those mornings, his voice rough from disuse. He clears his throat and looks at Sokka over his teacup. “Why didn’t you go with her?”

Sokka shrugs. “Maybe we’re taking a break,” he says vaguely, and swirls the dregs of his tea around. Zuko doesn’t reply, just looks at him carefully, eyes searching. Sokka takes this as an opportunity to stare shamelessly at the planes of Zuko’s face, every acne mark and poorly healed scratch, and, finally, the mottled red scar encircling his left eye. He reaches his hand out before he can stop himself but Zuko flinches away, leaning back into his chair. 

_I love you_ , Sokka thinks. “I’ll wash the dishes,” is what he says.

Zuko nods. “I can make dinner tonight,” he replies, and Sokka thinks maybe he’s really saying _I love you, too_.

Sokka dreams he’s back in the Southern Water Tribe, sitting on an ice floe. It’s night, and the sea is rough around him—despite the size of the chunk of ice he’s on, he finds himself being pitched back and forth, choking on the salty waves that crash over the edges. He’s wearing only the linens from Zuko and they’re soaked clean through—he shivers against the deep chill of the arctic air. Around him, ice cracks and groans. He wakes up just before he is about to pitch forward into the gaping depths of the sea.

Zuko comes back to his bedroom and spends most afternoons there. Sometimes Sokka will bring them dinner, and then they sit on his bed and eat in companionable silence, the kind of silence that never feels awkward or forced. Then Zuko will leave, and there’s always a moment where he lingers at the door, poised to speak, before shaking his head and walking out.

Katara writes and tells him that the Earthbenders were open to the modified bending; that she, Aang, and Suki will probably spend the rest of the summer there. She doesn’t mention Suki beyond that, and Sokka wonders if she knows they’ve split up. He lets the letters go unanswered and goes for another swim instead.

“Remember Ember Island?” Zuko asks as they sit next to each other in front of the bonfire, a month and a half into Sokka’s visit. 

Sokka snorts. “How could I ever forget?” He grabs Zuko’s chin, twists him so they’re inches apart, and adopts a shrill, mocking voice. “Nice Zuko costume, but your scar is on the wrong side.”

Zuko groans and bats Sokka’s hand away. “Come _on_ , Sokka.” But his eyes are dancing with laughter and Sokka wishes he could live in that moment forever.

That night Sokka lies awake, sheets kicked away from himself, replaying the moment in his head. _Come on, Sokka_. Did he imagine it, or had there been a hint of a challenge in Zuko’s eyes? _Come on, Sokka_. A humid breeze winds its way through Sokka’s open window, carrying with it the smell of the sea air outside. He breathes deep, eyes closed.

One week, it rains almost non-stop. Sokka and Zuko play endless rounds of pai sho, and the only sound in the house is their steady breathing and the sound of tiles clicking against wood. In the beginning, Sokka is terrible, but by the time the sun begins to peek through the clouds he’s beating Zuko every other game.

“Still no match for my uncle,” Zuko smiles, a hint of sadness in the corners of his eyes.

“My dad wants me to take over as chief eventually,” Sokka confesses, midafternoon, exactly two months into his stay. He’s laying on the floor again, and Zuko’s on his bed, his hand dangling off the side. 

Zuko is silent. Then, “do you want to?”

“I thought I did. It was all I wanted when I was younger.” Sokka sits up and presses his chin on top of the mattress. As though without thinking, Zuko reaches his hand up and runs it along the shaved part of his head, his fingers rough against the stubble. His thumb lingers on Sokka’s cheekbone, the pad of it burning into his skin.

“What do you want now?” Zuko looks at him levelly, gold eyes bright.

“I don’t know,” Sokka says hoarsely, and catches Zuko’s hand in his own.

Toph visits. She and Sokka spend long hours on the beach; he naps in the sand while she practices her sandbending, building intricate statues and buildings that arc their way around his sleeping form. He wakes up and doesn’t dare move, just closes his eyes and listens to the rush and pull of the water.

“You missed him,” she says, and it’s not a question. Trapped beneath the piles of sand, Sokka can only listen. “He missed you too. More than he wants to admit.” She lets the sand collapse from its air spun forms and joins him laying down.

“What was it like?”

“He wants to do so much but it’s so hard.” Idly, Toph brings a pile of sand to the air and spins it into a snowflake, then a flame. “Just _endless_ amounts of red tape. He can’t appoint new advisors till he’s twenty-five, and his father’s old ones are blocking him at every turn.” A craggy mountain. “He just takes everything so personally. He always has. And, well,” she punches her fists together and the sand falls to the ground, “these babies only get you so far.”

Sokka rolls to face her. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Toph just laughs.

Sokka dreams he's standing in the ocean again. The water is completely still, and tiny golden fish swirl around his ankles. As he stares at the horizon, a great wave rises up to envelop him, and he closes his eyes. He wakes up to clothes that smell like sea salt and gold flecks in his irises that dissolve as he blinks at the mirror.

Zuko doesn’t talk about his father. He doesn’t talk about Azula. He doesn’t talk about Mai or Ty Lee. He sits with Sokka in the courtyard and tells him about the different birds he used to watch outside the window of his bedroom at the palace, or walks him through recipe after recipe in the tiny kitchen of their beach house.

Sokka, in turn, teaches Zuko the basics of mapmaking. They swim out into the ocean at night and Sokka shows him how to navigate based on the stars, then they stay out for hours inventing constellations.

The world doesn’t need saving anymore, so Sokka wraps up all his energy around saving Zuko. He learns how to braid, and every night spends hours braiding and re-braiding Zuko’s hair as they sit in one of his many parlours. Sokka’s favourite is the room that faces the ocean, with a bank of windows that open up and let the breezes flow through. 

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, easy to let the days melt into each other. Zuko lays next to Sokka at night and traces the lines of his tattoos, breathes soft and warm against his shoulder. They wake up with their limbs tangled together, Zuko’s cold nose pressed into Sokka’s bare chest and Sokka’s face nestled into his tangled hair, braid long gone during the night. It’s so beyond easy, and Sokka doesn’t want to let the summer go.

Zuko spars with him on the beach. Sokka is more than happy to let him win, if only to see the ghost of a satisfied grin on Zuko’s face and feel his knee against his chest, sword pressed against his neck. But more often than not they match each other blow for blow, and each sparring match ends with them both collapsed on the ground, aching and dripping with sweat. 

And then it’s been three months. And Sokka knows he should go home. Katara visits with Aang and Appa, tells him their father has been worried. He says he’ll be back soon, just to hold on a little longer—Katara looks at him quietly, knowingly, and lets him stay.

“You can leave if you want to,” Zuko says quietly from the doorway, leaning on the frame. He’s traded his robes for linen trousers and one of Sokka’s shirts, and tugs at the hem nervously as he watches Sokka’s face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sokka promises, and Zuko smiles. “But—” and he watches Zuko’s face freeze up again, “you’re the Fire Lord, Zuko.” And it’s as though he’s said some terrible magic words—Zuko just stares at him, eyes wide and pained and sick. He steps away from Sokka and crosses his arms across his chest, hands reaching for the folds of his robe that aren’t there.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Zuko replies, mortified, a deep flush building on his cheeks. “I know we’re just on borrowed time.” Sokka wishes he could do something, anything, to shove his words back into his mouth, but they linger in the air, heavy and terrible.

 _You’re the Fire Lord, Zuko_.

Sokka dreams of falling chunks of ash and thick clouds of smoke; he gasps and chokes, his chest tight and aching, and falls into the waiting snowbanks. His eyes teary, he searches for a moon that is no longer in the sky. _Are you happy, Suki?_ Fire builds around him, erupts in his throat. _Not really_.

Zuko still sleeps in his bed but most nights Sokka sneaks out to sleep on the beach. He stares at the night sky and the whorls of stars spinning around the half-moon and thinks about his first love, and the way her hands were always cold against his, how she always seemed to have an otherworldly glow. _That’s rough, buddy_ comes to his head and he laughs into the sand.

Sokka plaits Zuko’s hair until all the tension melts out of him and his back stops burning Sokka wherever he touches it. Endlessly weaving, back and forth. They wake up to weak early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows, Zuko’s hair barely held in a wispy unfinished braid.

The sea crashes endlessly against the shore. Zuko first kisses him during a night swim and he tastes like salt. Struck dumb, Sokka lets himself get bowled over by a massive wave just to come back to reality, and surfaces to see Zuko’s face split wide with a teasing grin. Sokka tackles him into the next approaching wave and the quiet night air is split with peals of laughter.

Morning swims. A hand lightly brushing against a lower back. Cooking dinner next to an open window, eating bits and pieces of the half-cooked meal. Zuko says, his voice muddy with wine, “When I’m around you, I know everything will be okay.” And Sokka doesn’t say anything, just presses his head into Zuko’s shoulder. 

Sokka dreams his head is in his mother’s lap. She’s stroking his head, carding her fingers through his hair. “You were all so young, Sokka,” she murmurs, “too young to be soldiers.” The ice and snow are bright and cold but he doesn’t feel it at all. “Too young for the weight that still rests on your shoulders.” 

Katara writes. Says if Sokka doesn’t want second-in-command anymore, doesn’t want to be chief anymore, that’s okay—but he should go home and tell their father in person. Her words are quick and precise and unyielding, and Sokka knows she’s going to make a great chief. He knows it the same way he knows that Zuko will be a great Fire Lord, just given time. 

“I need to go back,” Sokka whispers into Zuko’s chest one night as if saying it quietly will make it less true.

“No, you don’t,” Zuko whispers back simply, and it’s as if everything has suddenly shifted into focus. Sokka breathes in the muggy summer air and realizes that everything he’s ever wanted is with him right now. And nothing else matters, not really.

Sokka sits up. Catches Zuko’s face in his hand. “No, I don’t.” And then they kiss, and Zuko tastes like home.

**Author's Note:**

> -some of the fic themes are inspired by the wonderful eleventy7's fic, "Running on Air"--genuinely one of my favourite fics ever.  
> -zuko and sokka go back to the fire nation and are an epic power couple. zuko is a really good fire lord, does lots of good work, just like sokka said he would  
> -and katara does take over as chief! i always thought in the show she had a leadership streak in her so i think she would be excellent
> 
> this fic was ultimately super self-indulgent but hope you liked it!! & i love validation so feel free to comment and all that <3 :)
> 
> find me on tumblr @ renoirstomatosoup!


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